There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the
poop,
And under the press of her pond'ring jib the boom bent like
a hoop,
And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her
stout main tack.
But he only laughed as he glanced abaft at a white and sil
very track.
The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore
to shore,
And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone